


Off The Record

by blue_spruce



Category: Newspapers (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Gen, the incorporeal spirits behind the newspapers, who have a crush on each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 06:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17038586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_spruce/pseuds/blue_spruce
Summary: A frosty silence fell over the table, broken eventually by an uncomfortable-looking NYT. “We need to talk about Twitter.”





	Off The Record

**Author's Note:**

  * For [primeideal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, primeideal!

- 

 

> 17 September 1951, _Life_ magazine, "The Gray Lady Reaches 100" by Meyer Berger:
> 
> THE Old Gray Lady will celebrate her 100th birthday this Sept. 18. The "lady" is a newspaper -- the New York _Times_ \-- regarded by many in the world at large (and all within its own world) as the world's greatest. And newsmen generally hail it as "old" and "gray" by way of acknowledging its traditional special marks: starch conservatism and circumspection.

-

It was cold out, the sort of winter day when ice crystals formed slowly in the corners of windows and the wind bit through coats like a hungry dog. The sky was heavy, and dark clouds swirled. The crowds hurrying past the plate glass produced little white puffs with each breath. It looked absolutely wretched out there in the cold. WaPo watched them for a moment before turning her gaze back to the being across the table from her.

NYT was slightly transparent, as always, although WaPo thought maybe this time she looked a bit more see-through than usual. She had gone with the 50’s look again - unsurprising - an ice blue sheath, pearls, white gloves; the works. A bit much for a hole-in-the-wall bar, but then again, it wasn't like anyone would see them anyway.

Still, it was impossible to resist a dig. “Why are you _like_ this?” she asked, nodding at NYT’s _everything_ with a little eyeroll when the Gray Lady looked up from her clutch, cigarette in hand.

At least she didn't pretend not to understand. “It was a great decade for me - at least I’m not constantly orbiting the 70s, for god’s sake.” NYT’s voice was low and a little raspy, but warm. She lit her cigarette and held it loosely, a wonderfully studied pose that reminded WaPo a bit of Audrey Hepburn.

Infuriating. “You’re such a –”

“Language,” NYT chided, raising an eyebrow.

WaPo rolled her eyes again. “Are you done?” she asked. “This city annoys me, I’d like to get on with it.”

They’d agreed to meet in Philly. Neutral ground, or what passed for it. It had become increasingly difficult to hold these meetings in either of their hometowns; there was just too much baggage on both of their ends, not enough trust to overcome the ever-shrinking margins of the industry.

“Yes,” NYT agreed. She looked at her cigarette, sighed, set it down in the ashtray. “Yes, I suppose we’d best.”

“All right then.” WaPo reached into her bag and pulled out her notebook. This time it was the same style as the kind Ben used to keep stashed in his desk back when he was Washington Bureau chief at Newsweek, long before she had thrown her weight around and bumped him up the food chain. Metaphorically speaking, that is, given the general state of weightlessness an incorporeal body holds. Good old Ben. She missed him, sometimes.

And it didn’t hurt, the way he still got under NYT’s skin. WaPo held the notebook for a moment before she opened it, making sure her dinner companion saw the cover. She waited until she saw NYT’s eyes narrow, then flipped the notebook open with a flourish.

“So,” she said, trailing a ghostly finger down her list. “How do you want to do it this time?”

NYT sniffed. “The current approach has been...largely satisfactory.” She looked at WaPo from under her lashes. “Although I do wish you would stay out of Manhattan.”

“Sure, sure. As soon as you give up on the Capitol.” WaPo bit down on the laugh bubbling up at the moue NYT was making. “Oh, come off it, sour face. Like we’ve been doing? A head’s up, woman to woman?”

“Mm.” NYT dug through her bag and pulled out another cigarette. “But ground rules intact. If you ever use one of my advance notices on a story -- which I give to you out of the kindness of my _heart_! --if you use it to do more than _hint_ to one of your reporters what direction to go, so help me God –”

WaPo glared. “Listen,” she interrupted. “In all the years we’ve been meeting like this-" _and it’s been quite a few_ , she fumed to herself, flipping through a mental Rolodex of articles, "–have I ever given more than a hint, the very vaguest impression to one of my reporters of which way to go?” She thought again of Ben; this was the reason she was fond of him, truth be told. He had been so beautifully receptive to the reporters’ intuition, the inexplicable certainties none of her reporters ever realized came from her. Everyone these days was driven by algorithms and Big Data. Fewer and fewer each year would leap into action due to a gut instinct. She sympathized with the poor dears, she could feel the anxiety in the building gnawing like a hole in her stomach some days. But still. Sometimes she wished she could reach out and crack a few skulls together. 

NYT met her gaze. She drew on her cigarette, and the moment lengthened. Something about it reminded WaPo of the last time they’d met like this to review the rules of engagement. They’d been alternating between New York and Washington for years, and it had been springtime in D.C. They’d been standing by the Tidal Basin beneath the flowering cherry trees and it had all been going fine until suddenly they were shouting at each other over the fine points of foreign correspondent contracts while tourists streamed by on either side and petals swirled around like rain.

“No,” NYT said. WaPo blinked, the spell broken. “No, you haven’t. But don’t start now.” 

WaPo snorted. “Stay out of my local stuff.”

“Stay out of mine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

A frosty silence fell over the table, broken eventually by an uncomfortable-looking NYT. “We need to talk about Twitter.”

“The citation rules? I thought that was settled.”

“No, not the citation rules!-–good Lord.” Something good must have happened on the football game broadcast over the TV; the bar erupted in a roar. “Surely you’ve seen how people have been talking about us… they were telling us to ‘get a room’ earlier this summer, for goodness’ sake.”

“Oh, that.” WaPo looked across the table. NYT had two spots of color high on her cheeks, and also, if WaPo wasn’t mistaken, was just the slightest bit less transparent than she had been when she walked in. WaPo smiled. “We’ll have to work on giving them something to talk about.” NYT sputtered as WaPo slid out the end of the booth. "You know how to reach me," she said jauntily, settling her hat on her head. 

NYT's eyes were glittering, her mouth sharp. She ground out her second cigarette, a quick twist of her fingers. "I'm not going to move any fucking flower pots or wave a goddamn flag to get your attention." 

Orbiting the 70s, indeed. It was WaPo who raised an eyebrow this time. "Language." 

An almost-laugh. "Oh, shove off." The bar exploded again with sound. NYT rose elegantly from her own side of the booth. "Next time you can come meet me in my city. Don't bother sending notice ahead of time, I'll be expecting you."

"Alright then." WaPo paused, casting around for the lay of the land with her own reporter's intuition. NYT's lips quirked, the tiniest smile: a positive sign. "See you around, I guess." Another paper might have gone in for a hug. Any of the Californians, for sure. Of course, none of the West Coast papers had people tweeting at them to  _get a room_ with the New York Times.

WaPo went, instead, for an appropriately restrained nod.  

"See you around," NYT said. The tiny smile deepened. "Just don't tell anyone I said that." 

 What a beautiful, infuriating creature. "Off the record," WaPo agreed, after the barest hesitation. "Definitely." 

Next time, she thought. Yes. She blew a kiss to NYT as she headed to the door, watching for the sweet satisfaction of the blush creeping across her rival's cheeks. Next time she would make her move, give the rags something real to talk about. Until then... yes, until then, this little  _détente_ would work just fine.

 

-30-

 


End file.
